When I was young I never dreamed I'd cure cancer — or even ringworm — but I hoped I'd at least make a good impression somewhere along the way. The older I get, the more I realize you don't have to change the world to make your mark. You just have to do something a few people really admire.

I know a man who did just that.

I met him in Montana. My flight arrived in Missoula mid-afternoon, and I headed north toward Flathead Lake. A couple of hours later, I pulled into Polson and found a room in the town's budget motel.

My place didn't serve food, but I was told I could get a meal across the street at the Salish Point Marina.

I walked over and went in. Three men were there, and all waved hello.

I said I was from Georgia, and they dubbed me "Peachy" and invited me to join them.

The guy in the cowboy hat was Jim. He was a retired rancher who still kept some livestock and loved to hunt and fish.

Except to insist that Montana was as fine a place as ever existed, the second guy didn't say much.

Max, the third man, was clearly the leader of the pack. Not long after I showed up, he handed the waitress a bag of apples he'd picked in his front yard that afternoon. He said he was giving them away before the bears ate them all.

Kathy said she'd make an apple pie and serve it the next night when the guys came back.

After some urging from the others, Max finally told me about himself.

He said he grew up in Montana and served two tours in Vietnam, riding up and down the Mekong River to places the U.S. military still insists we never officially visited.

When he left the service, Max worked with a fire suppression equipment company, then patented a piece of equipment that paid enough royalties for him to retire back in Montana and do what he wanted.

Max's military and corporate credentials were strong, but they didn't impress his pals as much as one other accomplishment.

The guys said a few years earlier the three went to a sale of surplus Army trucks. Two of them didn't see anything that interested them, but Max did — a camouflage-colored 18-wheeler that had been parked so long the tires were flat. It wouldn't crank, either. The auctioneer said it never would again.

Max bought it for a few bucks, towed it home and went to work on the engine.

The others thought he'd lost his mind, but a few weeks later Max invited them over. They gawked in amazement as he crawled behind the wheel and tickled a starter button that hadn't been touched for years.

The truck belched and wheezed like a tuberculosis patient, but after a minute, the engine fired and kept running.

The guys asked, "What now?"

Max said, "I'm gonna drive it." He pulled out, and his two pals followed in a pickup. The caravan rolled over 40 miles south, past Pablo, Ronan, Post Creek, St. Ignatius and Ravalli.

The truck made it as far as Arlee, then died. Max just walked away. He'd accomplished his goal.

His friends were more impressed by that 40-mile drive than they would have been if their buddy had turned water to wine.

"Max got that truck cranked and drove it all the way to Arlee," Jim said. "It was the best thing you ever saw."

The story reminded me that accomplishments are all about perspective. I still haven't done anything I consider worthwhile with my life, but if resurrecting a diesel engine and driving a truck down the road can make one man a hero, I've still got a shot to do something someone considers remarkable.

Maybe I'll clean out the garage. Right after my nap.

(Send your e-mail comments to: alex@newnan.com)